Institutional Days
by CuriTeaist
Summary: A series of unrelated one-shots following Brian during his institutional days, not necessarily in chronological order. Spoilers for season/book one. Series based unless otherwise specified. Rating may go up as needed.
1. Red Crayon

**A/N**: Thanks to Mike91848 for reading this over.

Title: Red Crayon

Genre: General/Angst

Word Count: 643

Time-Line: Shortly after Brian is institutionalized.

Warnings: Spoilers for Dexter's past, slight mention of gore, and a touch of angst.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

A red crayon dances across white.

Chatter fills the room around Brian, but he ignores it. He just focuses on his masterpiece. He has always liked coloring, his teachers said that he was the best in the class. He never planned out his drawing, images and colors flowed into his head and he just followed them. He bites his tongue gently, his small hand clutching the red crayon as it glides back and forth across the paper. His mind briefly hears a voice yelling, "No! No! Bonnie doesn't like!", before fading back into the senseless chatter.

A red crayon traces around gray.

Brian likes it like this. Sometimes, when he pretends really hard, it's just like school. They give him meals, there are grown-ups always watching, and he gets regular play time. Sometimes he likes to pretend that it's almost time to go home from school too. That he'll walk out and mommy will pick him up. He'll get into the back seat of her car and Dexter will be hugging him, welcoming him home. Mommy will ask him about his day and Dexter will ask more questions about everything, because he's only three and he still needs to learn about all that stuff. It'd be just another day.

A red crayon flows along pink.

"Nooo!", a big kid slams him hands down on the table next to Brian and screams. Brian is jarred out of his world. The car melts away and he is back to the bad place. The big kid looks at him for a moment before running off. Brian cradles the red crayon near his chest and looks around. People yell and scream, but never really say anything. Everything here is wrong. The people are wrong. They shout at nothing and do weird things. Even weirder than Kevin, the kid who ate glue in Brian's school. They say the same things over and over again, do stuff for no reason. Grown-ups too. There are grown-ups that act wrong. Brian goes back to coloring. Colors and images pour back into his head, and his hands return to putting them on paper. The world around him fades back in to a fuzzy haze. Brian doesn't like it at the bad place, where everything is wrong. And that is why he colors. He heard them say that if you color and play and try really hard to be a normal little boy, they'll let you out. It's just like Pocono, he has to prove he a real boy.

A red crayon spots the yellow.

Brian isn't sure where he'll go when they do let him out. He thinks that daddy will take care of him and his brother. He wishes he could go back to mommy, but mommy is gone. That's what they told him, that mommy is gone and he won't be able to see her ever again. Brian sniffs and briefly pauses in his coloring to wipe a tear from his cheek before returning to his art work.

A red crayon glides into brown.

"What are you drawing?", a grown-up asks, looking over his shoulder. She is normal, not wrong like everyone else. She has a smile that's too big and green eyes that don't shine. Even the normal people aren't right in the bad place. Brian looks at her. He wants to smile, to be normal and show them all he's not wrong like everyone else here, but he can't. He sniffs again, and just tries not to cry. The woman's smile drops and she puts a hand over her mouth before she stands up straight and walks away. Brian only stares at her as she leaves. She disappears in the crowded room quickly. He looks down at his drawing. It's a picture of Dexter, him, and their mommy. She's in pieces. The chainsaw is there.

Everything is red.


	2. Metamorphose

Title: Metamorphose

Genre: General/Angst

Word Count: 866

Time-Line: Two years after Brian is institutionalized.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past, slight mention of gore, and a touch of angst.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

Brian sits with his knees pressed up against his chest, quiet and observant from his corner. The room is large and busy, with windows that stream light into the room. They are large and clean, showing the outside world. It's almost as though he could walk outside and enjoy the bright sunlight. It's a lie. The glass, though near invisible, is treated and reinforced. You can hit it with chairs and tables and it won't budge. He's learned this first hand.

But it isn't the bright day or singing birds promising such amazing adventures that has his attention, he already knows he won't be let out. Not until three, and even then it'll just be in the small courtyard. Today, Brian watches the inside. He curls and relaxes his toes as he watches the people walk by. He's bored, but after two years of mind numbing boredom, it's the norm, only interrupted by brief periods of terror when riots break out. Even those are beginning to lose their feel. The entire world seems to be drifting away from young Brian Moser in fact. Everyday he feels a little less real, like he is retreating further and further into his own head, detached from the world around him. As though he is watching his life go by an a television screen.

And so he watches. He watches the normal people come and talk to the people that live with him. The messed up people, the sick people, the just plain _wrong_ people. They like to pretend that their family member is okay, just a little bit unwell. That they aren't completely stark raving mad. They come, they bring presents for them and talk to them and _try_. Try to be nice, to love the person that has snapped. Try to pretend that something isn't seriously wrong with them. They at least try to stay by their side.

His dad was suppose to come today. Brian had never been close to his father. It was always his mom and his brother. They were a happy family. Untraditional, but happy. But his mom is dead now. Brian remembers how he use to cry about it, whine for his mother late at night. Now he thinks about her death with no interest, picking at a scab on his knee. He wonders how he could have mustered up the energy to care. Just another dead woman.

He watches as a child walks by, a little younger than himself. He vaguely wonders what Dexter is doing. He's five now, wherever he is. Brian has already figured out he's not going to see Dexter ever again. His chest pulls in more air and this throat tightens. That thought, the idea of never seeing Dexter again, does make him cry, or want to. He could easily whine for his baby brother late at night. But he doesn't.

Brian completely rips off his scab, watching the blood slowly ooze out of his knee. Dexter isn't a baby anymore though. He's five now. Starting school. Brian always use to look forward to the day that he would hold Dexter's hand as they would walk to the bus stop on Dexter's first day of school. He would tell his little brother all he would need to know, and then some. Dexter would listen intently, staying close to his big brother and Brian would make sure no one looked at Dexter the wrong way.

He blinks away tears. He's already sworn to himself that he wouldn't cry anymore. He pushes Dexter's face from his mind, saving such sweet dreams for later.

He pinches the flesh around his bleeding knee, forcing more blood out. He looks up briefly, scanning the room for his father before returning to his knee. Some blood drips onto his pointer finger and he smiles, rubbing it with his thumb. His mind shifts to darker thoughts, thoughts that he knows he isn't suppose to think. But how he loves the images, the tantalizing concepts. Human beings not as they are suppose to be. He saw it once, when his mom died. He saw how humans look on the inside. He likes the ideas and the pictures. He welcomes the dark thoughts and enjoys his fantasies. He hums happily at the thoughts.

"Visiting hours are over", a voice from some speakers says calmly. The room begins to empty and Brian doesn't waste anymore time. He walks out of the room and down the halls. His dad never did show up. Brian didn't expect him to. After two years of just claiming that he'll visit Brian, he got the hint. The pain of rejection has faded into nothingness, just like almost every other emotion Brian use to have. The only thing left is a mild frustration at being lied to. Brian wishes, and it's only for a moment, he swears, that he could kill his father. The dark thoughts come back to Brian, this time with a face and a name, rather than just a body. They've never truly left him, and secretly, he never wants them to. The sweet crimson blood pooling, skinned flesh and filleted bones. Brian hums happily as he walks down the corridor.


	3. Freedom

Title: Freedom

Genre: General

Word Count: 868

Time-Line: Brian's twenty-first birthday.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past and slight mention of gore.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

Left, right, right, second door down to your left. It's the path that Brian has walked for many years now. He trails his fingers along the lower wall. His eyes are intense, always watching closely. Nothing escapes him. Nothing interests him either. He watches, but never looks for anything in particular.

He's quiet as he walks his path. His steps don't make a sound, his breathing is slowed to a calm rhythm, only evidenced by a subtle rise and fall of his chest. His ever watching eyes are locked on his fingers with mild care, but they still see everything. The birds that flutter around carelessly in the trees outside, the new nurse that struggles with the cart full of medicine. Robert, a patient he's long familiar with, fidgets nervously from down the hall. He's up to something against the rules. Brian smiles. Not that he particularly care about Robert or the rules, but he has entertainment potential.

He rounds a corner, lithe and graceful as always. He use to walk this very same path as a child, tiny hands with small fingers that would trail the walls as he walked. Quiet and observant, just like today, but unaware, unable to understand what this place was or why he was there. But he would do as he was told, walk to where he was instructed, and talk about what was being asked.

The institution hasn't changed since then. A new coat of paint. It use to be egg-shell white, now it's more of a cream white. More relaxing, gentle. Brian agrees. Aside from that, the place hadn't changed at all. Not one bit.

Brian has though. He's grown. From a young boy to a grown man. His tiny hands are larger now, his form is tall, and his mind is keen. He understands where he is, why he is there, and what he has to do to get out. And he knows he has to get out.

He opens the door to his therapist, an older man who is just barely over weight. He slips his mask on without waiting or preparing. Brian's eye twinkle, and his smile is wide. He's happy today. Or he is suppose to be anyway. It's his birthday today.

"Hello Brian. You look well today", his therapist says calmly from his chair, writing on his notepad. Brian looks at him, takes note of every detail, from the length of his goatee to the shade of his teeth, and smiles back, taking his regular seat.

"Yep, today I can officially get drunk", Brian laughs and smiles. He daydreams briefly about killing his therapist with his pen, but he tucks the thought away for later.

"I have a present for you", his therapist says, putting his pen and paper down and leaning forward. Brian's eyes dart around for a second, scanning the room for any brightly colored boxes, or anything else that could be given as a gift. He sees nothing.

"What is it?", he asks. He's cautious, not being privy to what is happening, but his smile doesn't drop. He shows no outward signs of his inward self. It's been this way for a while now.

"I talked to some people, wrote some recommendations, and...", he trails off. An intangible gift, Brian had a hunch. His mind goes through all possibilities. A new room? A personal television? "You're out", his therapist says, breaking into a smile. Brian is slow to comprehend. His therapist stands up, and he also stands to hug him. A human gesture that means nothing to Brian.

Out? Out of where? Does he dare guess out of the institution? Has freedom come at long last? Brian pulls away from his therapist, and looks him dead in his eyes.

"Out of the institution? Like, real world?", he stumbles and stutters, thrown off and at a loss for words. His heart beats wildly, thoughts and images of what to do with his long awaited freedom rushing to him. Images of naked amputees and butchered bodies hit him. The dark thoughts usually creep into his mind seem to swirl around him, engulfing him. He doesn't fight them. They are no longer fantasies, only to be dreamed about, but the future. Soon to be reality.

He doesn't know what he says to his therapist, or what his therapists says back. Words are exchanged, and Brian excuses himself. He stumbles outside of the room and sits against the wall.

Freedom. He breaths in deeply. The air almost tastes sweeter.

A new dream of the future, slower than the rest to emerge but more powerful than the others, creeps into his mind. This one doesn't contain blood. No missing limbs or dead bodies. Only a young child.

Dexter.

The only thing that can still bring out any life in Brian, the only thing that he swears he can _feel_. His little brother. He's a man now too. An adult. He has to wonder what his brother looks like. Is he muscular or weak? Does he dye his hair, or is it still brown? What sort of clothes does he wear? Where does he live? How was he raised?

Is he messed up just like his big brother?


	4. Welcome Home

Title: Welcome Home

Genre: General/angst

Word Count: 459

Time-Line: Checking Brian into the institution.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

Brian holds his teddy bear close to him. He buries his face in the back of it's head, willing himself home. He tries not to watch the man open boxes, pull out his stuff, and put them into one of two piles. There's an older blonde woman holding his hand, smiling a wide smile that looks like it is glued on. The man sorting out his stuff is older and fat. He's bald, and doesn't bother to smile. Brian likes it better that way. At least they aren't lying to him. He pulls out a spider-man action figure, examines it, and puts into the larger of the two piles.

Brian just holds his bear tighter. Whenever something bad happens, he would hug Dexter. Dexter isn't here, so he hugs his bear. It usually works, makes him feel a littler bit better, but the simple comfort of it's soft brown fur seems empty and hollow. Everything feels hollow. Brian wonders if he died with his mom, and that's why he can't feel anything.

The man snorts loudly, clearing his nose. He puts Brian's skateboard in the ever-growing 'throw out' pile. Brian tries to look away again. He hugs the bear tighter, willing the usual comfort to come to him. But it doesn't. It's stuffing covered in a fuzzy brown material. It has no emotions, no sense, no thoughts. It's just a toy, pointless and meaningless.

His hands fall to his sides, barely holding the bear. He has lost interest in trying to feel it's ever elusive comfort. The man snorts again and pushes a stack of three boxes towards them.

There use to be ten.

Other men come and load the boxes on a cart, and they all walk down the hallways, wandering deeper into the beast. Every step Brian takes seems to lead him to a darker place.

"You're going to live here for a while", the woman holding his hands says. She says it softy, with that glued on smile. It's intended to comfort the young boy, but it only confirms his worst fears. He's never going to leave this place.

He follows behind the woman slightly, still holding her hand. His feet drag, all motivation to continue walking has left him. He wants nothing more than to go home. He doesn't want to go farther and farther into this twisted building. He doesn't want to live here.

They go to a room, so perfectly white. "Welcome home", the lady next to him whispers.

Home where the wind never blows anyone's hair. Home where time seems to hold still, only recorded with one's growth and length of hair. Home where the mad people live. Home where young Brian Moser will dwell for a while.

A long, long while.


	5. Try Again

Title: Try Again

Genre: General/angst

Word Count: 1,133

Time-Line: When Brian is fifteen.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

"How often do you get angry?", Brian's psychologist probs. It's that wonderful time of the year again, when all the psych patients are evaluated like animals. They get a mental check-up by some psychologist to assess just how crazy they are.

"I get frustrated sometimes, but not usually really mad", Brian automatically responds with an innocent smile. This animal is well-behaved and ready for freedom. Like a puppy waiting patiently, yet still eagerly, to go outside. He's only fifteen, so he'd have to be put up for adoption. Most people don't want to adopt a fifteen year old male fresh out of the loony bin, but that's okay. He'd be content going from foster home to foster home for three years.

"And when you do get really mad, what do you do?", he probes again. The doctor knows exactly what to ask. Brian has already been labeled with Antisocial Personality Disorder. It's a fancy way of saying that he's a messed up kid who likes to make things feel pain. But that was _last_ year, this year he is completely cured. Nope, no violent thoughts here. Only sunshine and kitty cats.

"I try to let it go. Most people here don't mean it", he says it with a smile. He's smiling too much, but it's better than not enough. He didn't lie either. He usually does try to let his anger go, and most people here don't mean to annoy him. It's just that the two things aren't related. He doesn't care if they mean it or not. It just comes down to the fact that he if ever wants out of this place - and he does oh so badly - then he can't attack other people. He has to play nice, at least while he's in the institution.

The psychologist nods and writes something down. Brian's eye flick to the paper in the psychologist's lap briefly, wishing he could read through the back of it. He needs to know if he's hot or cold, more smiles or less. Should he try to joke more? Should he be more relaxed, or is he too relaxed as is? But the paper is so perfectly concealed. There's no hints allowed in this place.

Everyone here knows exactly what he is. How he thinks, what he wants, and how he feels, or more aptly, how he _doesn't_ feel.

"And when you can't just let it go?", the psychologist continues. Brian knows better than to say absolutes, that he has never gotten angry, or that he has never felt like hurting someone. It'd be a clear lie, and he's learned better. And that leaves the minority of times when he does. Brian freely admits he gets angry, and that opens to door to questioning. The questioning always leads to the same dead end of failure.

He's not going to get out this year. He knows it. The psychologist has trapped him in a corner. His will to try harder melts away, giving into lethargic anger. He lost. The psychologist already sees through him. The quickly-dying hopeful side of him fights to keep the smile on his face. It becomes forced, and turns into more of a scowl.

"I wait it out until I can", he mutters, giving up on his smile. The battle is lost. The psychologist knows this too. He scribbles more on his paper, and this time Brian doesn't need x-ray vision to know what is being written.

"I think we are done here", he doesn't wait for Brian to respond. He leaves Brian alone with his thoughts, sulking in his failure. He's fifteen. He can officially say he grew up in a mental asylum. Yeah, all those fun things kids are suppose to do, like go to school - a _real_ school - and play other kids - _normal_ kids - he never got to do. Parents? A family? That's a good one!

Ten years, he realizes. This is his tenth year in a row failing.

His shimmering rage flares, consuming him in the burning power. He throws his chair. A leg breaks off. The room is empty aside from two chairs and a table. So next he throws the table. It doesn't break, but it leaves a nice hole in the cheap walls. He's panting, his anger long past the point of control.

Does the psychologist really want to know what happens when he can't 'just let it go'? He goes for his broken chair, discarded in a corner of the room, and starts hitting the wall, leaving holes, ripping it apart. And _God_, how it feels good. How he has longed to destroy his cage.

His panting gets heavier and deeper. His body has changed over the past few years, from a boy to a man, and he is still learning how to move within it. No longer are his arms small and tender, his body too tiny to do any damage. He's large now, capable of releasing his anger properly. And he's enjoying it.

The chair has lost all of it's legs, and he is about to go for the other one, because right now, he doesn't care. He's lost hope of getting out. He feels like some pathetic puppy, begging for a treat never to come. And Brian Moser is not pathetic.

Hands are on him, pushing him down to the ground. They're heavy and harsh, the bad side of the institution, reserved for only those who disobey the soft spoken voices that guide them like sheep. Brian relaxes his body out of sheer habit, and lets the man push him to the ground. Could he fight back with his new, better body? He never considered it. He tried it before, with his last form, when he was tiny and small. Didn't work.

The large man diverts his weight off of Brian to stop from crushing him, but still sits on him with enough pressure to get the message across; never in a million years will Brian ever be able to throw this man off. Brian just lays there, letting his rage go back to a shimmer. He doesn't fight the large, roughened hand that shoves a pill into his mouth. He even saves everyone involved the trouble and just swallows the pill outright. Anyone that hasn't had as much experience in a mental asylum would have probably found it difficult, swallowing the pill face down on the ground with a man that weighs no less than two hundred and fifty pounds resting on their back.

Brian sighs and rests his check on the cool ground, anger fully giving way to the hopelessness. The only good part of it all is that he doesn't have much time to brood before the pill kicks in and he's out.


	6. High School

Title: High School

Genre: General

Word Count: 740

Time-Line: When Brian is fourteen.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

Brian is fourteen. It's spring, and the new school year will start soon. For a normal person, this is a very exciting time. His first day of high school is nearing. He's seen how it is on the television, the only window to life outside the institution. How the girls get all dressed up in skirts and run around giggling at cute boys. How the boys are all preoccupied with sports and the girls. It was vaguely humorous to Brian, the sexual tension they show on the television. The only channels he's allowed to watch are all directed to children, and it seems like the main goal of every boy and girl in the show is a peck on the check, and every time they get close, they get so nervous that they leave in an awkward flurry.

Brian may have been sheltered his entire life - and he truly means sheltered - but he knows the facts the life. He knows that normal high school students aim for a lot more than just a little kiss, and they don't back out of it either. He's also vaguely aware that the shows that he watches are probably far from reality. Distorted they may be, they are still a reflection of life outside the white walls. Like some fun-house mirror, everything is there, just off in places.

Inside these walls however, he can only wish were as far from reality. But there are no actors or directors. No one writes what happens here. Like everything else, high school here is wrong.

Brian flips the pages of the booklet, skimming the class descriptions. He has to choose what classes to take. The images of the high school dramas play out in his head, scenes of panicked students signed up for the wrong class give him a glimpse of just what the outside world may be like.

He returns to the front of the booklet, leafing through it again. They say it's important what classes he takes. That it'll define his future. What does he want to be when he grows up? The thought had never occurred to him. He want to grow up and become a free man.

And that's why his temper, always unsteady, rises with every turn of the page. They tell him to choose a schedule, pick his classes, go out and learn. They say it like it actually matters. Almost as though they believe he'll get out. They don't. He doesn't even fully believe he'll ever get out anymore.

He reaches the end of the booklet again. He starts back at the beginning. He knows the real reason why they are forcing him to do this. It's the law. The government says that every capable child has to be educated. Brian, despite being put in the institution, is still capable to learn. And legally, he has to learn. It's all formalities, no one really cares. They stopped caring about him years ago.

His attention drifts from the booklet to the future. He has to wonder, will he ever truly get out? He can't picture the day. He doesn't even think they are still trying to make him normal. He's messed up, everyone knows it, and no one still cares. So does that mean he'll always live in here? Will his body grow old and frail without ever becoming free? The thought scares him. Not very many things do scare Brian anymore, but the idea of his black hairs turned gray and his strong and youthful bones turned brittle and weak, him hobbling down the hallway to get some food, it terrifies him. He wants a better future. He wants out. He _refuses_ to sit here and wait for something that he knows will never come.

He picks up the booklet again. This time he have vigor as he flips the pages. He truly reads the course descriptions, taking it in. The haunting future still lingers in his mind, like a beast with it's maw spread wide open, moving oh so slowly to engulf him.

He looks at the graduation requirements and the universities requirements. He will _not_ grow old here. He will get out of this place. An old man hobbling down the ever so white hallways will not be his future.

His future involves freedom, blood, death, and something else.

His brother. His brother is also part of his future. Just as soon as he gets out.


	7. Drugged

Title: Drugged

Genre: General

Word Count: 743

Time-Line: When Brian is ten.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

The halls are loud, filled with the chattering mad. Excitement is in the air, energizing the normally dull patients. A child cries in pain as he is carried off to the hospital. The janitor doesn't waste time mopping up the blood. The sooner the streaks and blotches of red are washed away, restoring the white to it's pristine state, the sooner the patients calm.

Counselors try to calm them by separating them. The constant chatter between them only fuels the excitement. And everyone knows what happens when the patients become to antsy. Needless to say, they are all shooed off to bed early that night.

Whispers of the event linger still, hushed voices carrying the spark of excitement through the darkness. Brian would have usually enjoyed such a day. He normally loves it when someone stands up against the twisted monster that they all belong to. They are all denizens of this horrible land that demands absolute obedience. Nothing can better bring a smile to his young face than watching the monster that is their home twist and turn uncomfortably at such an uprising. And watching the poor sap get taken down afterwards is always fun too.

Not today, however. Brian did enjoy it at first, the only thing better than watching such an event is being at the center of it. Oh, how much fun he had. He had even set a new record for the amount of bodily damage inflicted with only a plastic spoon. And how he does love making people cry and beg for mercy.

But then the fun ended. Today, Brian was the poor sap that was taken down. Pushed and thrown, despite still being a child. Pills were forced down his throat, no matter how hard he fought against them. And now he is left alone in his room. It's too dark to make out any shapes. Or maybe his eyes simply cannot connect the various shades of gray and black into shapes. He twists in his bed and breaths in deeply, trying regain the spark of energy and life that was robbed from him when they drugged him. He's uncomfortable. Maybe it's too hot, or maybe it's too cold. Maybe both. He only knows it's not right. He sucks in more air, trying again to revive himself. But his mouth feels like it's full of cotton, and he can't feel his chest expand. The only way he even knows that he did breath is that the blankets, wrapped tightly around him from all his turning, constrict him more.

He twists and turns some more, trying to free himself from his linen's death grip. His mind can't pick out any details. He can't tell where the blanket ends or begins, or which parts of him exactly are covered, and which are not. He only twists around as much as his sluggish body and muddled mind will allow.

He winds up face down. He can tell because he can't breath, being smothered by his pillow. He wiggles some more, trying a last ditch effort for freedom. He stills and allows himself to whimper, certain that none can hear. He swallows air, trying to wet his mouth. It's dry, he thinks. He can't tell. He only knows his mouth feels wrong.

He rests. He's not sure if it's a long time or short, but soon his hyperactive mind, so busy trying to put together his surroundings, calms. He can no longer be bothered by such things as whether or not his mouth is dry. Instead he just stares off into the darkness. He's not sleeping, far from. The drugs make him restless. They don't calm, only disable. Instead he lets memories and hopes mingle before his eyes. He remembers his mother, and his brother. How they would play games together, one big happy family. How they might have been and what could have been. He imagines what Dexter would say to him now. He'd still be too young to understand, at least most of it. He'd be worried, wanting to know what's wrong with Biney.

Brian's glad his brother isn't here. It's a first for him. He's been constantly wishing for his company, a relief from the beast that he lives in. But right, he doesn't want Dexter to see him. He doesn't want his questioning gaze on him, requesting know what is wrong. Because so many things are wrong now.

He turns again, willing sleeping to come.

It doesn't.


	8. Riot

Title: Riot

Genre: General

Word Count: 520

Time-Line: When Brian is ten.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

Normally, the institution is filled with drugged-up, lethargic people. They move slow and talk slower. Bright colors are banned, they excite and rile up the denizens of this place. Only soft and gentle colors, quiet noises, and happy thoughts are allowed.

They try not to be so mean, the people who run the place, that is. They don't want to deprive the people here of anything, half of them aren't even dangerous. They just get excited, that's all.

But when they do get excited...There's a good reason why it's something to avoid.

The sound of rushing air ends with glass breaking and a light going out. Another crash, and another unlit area of the hall. Brian flinches every time. People run through the halls, yelling and screaming. Some are tackled to the ground and forced to take a pill. It's like a battle field, and Brian is in awe. He can easily imagine this building as a battle ground, rebels fighting for simply the sake of fighting and showing their contempt to their overlords. It excites him, energizing him down to his very core. An oh so welcome break from the pure mind-numbing obedience that is constantly demanded.

Another light goes, plunging the entire hallway into darkness. The only light comes from the moon, poking through several windows. The noise doesn't stop though. There's still enough light for people to run, throw furniture, and brawl.

Brian stays in the corner, not daring to go out. He should be scared. He knows he should be. The people around him are dangerous, regardless of if they intend to be. Half wouldn't care in the least if he died. The other half wouldn't realize that he even died at all. Any normal person would be scared. But then again, if Brian was normal, he wouldn't be in this dreaded place to begin with.

A person tackles down another one to the ground, screaming and hitting them wildly. Brian's eyes watch with awe and amazement as blood spills. He begins to move out of his safe corner and into the chaos, but another man run by, screaming and chasing another with a blunt object -a leg of some piece of furniture.

He moves back into his corner, smiling. He's learned several things over his few years here. One of his hardest learned lessons was 'rioting is dangerous'. He longs to joins the crowd, to get a few good swipes in at some people. Anyone really. He doesn't really care anymore who he hits. He just wants to hit _someone_.

But he remembers the first time he tried to join in. He was still small. He got pushed around, attacked. He's not the only one who wants to hit anyone they see. He's still too small today, even if he is getting bigger. He's ten now, soon he'll hit puberty and become a man. _Then_ he can have fun.

And so he stays back, away in the corner, content to just watch the uprising. Soon he'll be big enough to join in the fun. Until that time, he only watches, eyes gleaming in the dark chaos.


	9. Friends

Title: Friends

Genre: General

Word Count: 475

Time-Line: When Brian is sixteen.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

Brian sits and watches the crowd. It's lunch time, and the masses have poured into the mess hall. A sea of mad men. It appears calm, almost as though it's any other place. That anyone could just walk through.

Looks can be deceiving. Brian rests his head on the table, keeping his eyes on the crowd devouring their meal. They appear happy and content. Most are. Some aren't. All are dangerous in their way.

There are two types of people in the institution; those who are honestly and genuinely insane, with no hope of ever caring for themselves or functioning in the outside world, and then there's the people like Brian. The arsonists, rapists, and murderers. The ones that managed to get out of Death Row using the insanity plea. There is no one name for each type. They are mostly identified using tones. A hissing whisper for the deranged and dangerous, and a soft coo of pity for the downright mad.

When he first got here, people referred to him with the soft coo, unsure of what he was doing there. He was just a little boy, so sweet and innocent. It only took a few years for the soft coo to turn into a hissing whisper though. Now that he's sixteen, any remaining illusion of innocence left with his childish face.

Fred walks by and scowls at him. That's his way of smiling. Fred killed twelve people. The excuse he used in court? No particular reason. It worked, kind of. Got him off of Death Row.

Fred pushes through the line, most of the people letting him by. The people you coo about, they know not to stand in his way. They whine and whimper as they stand aside. The other people like himself, the ones they hiss about, they are dignified. They step aside with a quiet glare.

Fred is sort of the alpha around here.

Brian looks at Mary. Mary is a one to coo for. She only attacks in self defense. Problem is, if you so much as touch at her, she goes into self defense mode. She was gang raped, lead to a mental breakdown. Brian can't bring himself to care. She paces around in a circle, chanting to herself "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil", again and again. She makes the motions as well, coving her eyes, ears, and mouth. Everyone gives her a wide berth. No one wants to rumble with Mary.

These are his friends, of sorts. A family in their own right. Brian doesn't like to associate himself too much with them. The insane and the failed criminals. He doesn't feel either are in any place to feel pride.

But he is in the same place. Different monsters trapped in the same snare.

These are his friends, and this is his life.


	10. Dexter

Title: Dexter

Genre: General

Word Count: 665

Time-Line: When Brian is fourteen.

Warnings: Spoilers for Brian's past.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the premise of this story.

**-Story Starts Here-**

He's twelve. Red hair, freckles, and completely insane. Medication doesn't seem to be helping. When he gets really bad, they drug him. Which is a lot. He's loud, annoying, violent, rude, and inconsiderate. He's the kind of person who will walk up to you, eat your food, hug you, and push you down. Everyone hates him. Not everyone here is able to know why he does what he does, but they all still know what he does and hates him for it.

His name is Dexter.

I know he's not my brother. There are many people with that name in the world. Even in just Florida, there's a lot. This one holds absolutely no correlation to my brother.

Except for the name, of course.

After so many years of wondering what has become of my little brother, my deeply deprived mind latches onto him. He's not my brother, I _know_ this. But I still _feel_ like he is. He walks around in a circle, staring up at the ceiling, babbling to himself. His vibrant green eyes are wide with a realization to a problem that only exists in his mind. Red curls swing and bob slightly with every turn. His normally pale and pasty cheeks have turned red from constant babbling, hiding his freckles. The sounds that come from his mouth are in his language, and his language alone.

But his name is still Dexter.

Memories come to me. The little boy with light brown, almost blonde hair, wide brown eyes, ready to explore the world, haunts me. The lingering feel of his hand, grabbing and pulling mine, wanting to show me some amazing discovery. His laughter and wide smile as he points to whatever object has stolen his interest that day.

The two people mix in my mind. They share nothing in common, but they still seem to become one. I stare at the boy before me, living so fully outside of reality. No matter how hard I try, it still comes to me. _Feelings_. I thought I was done with those. But I knew better. Every time I thought of my little brother, I would feel. The one part of me that is still alive. The only thing that I can bring myself to care about anymore.

Dexter.

I would save such fond thoughts for late at night, when no one is able to see me or judge me. But now _he's_ there, bringing it all out for the public to see.

_He_ spots a lone man eating a few feet away from him. For reasons only known to him, _he_ darts to him, slams his body into him, and starts yelling.

"Who are you! Who are you!", _he_ demands. The poor guy stands up and pushes him down. I tense. _He_ is not my brother. I try telling myself this over and over again. I have no obligation to help him. _He_ deserves it. If I do help him, everyone will see that part of me. The only part left that cares. It'll be exposed to this twisted place. The people here are like vultures, they'll pick clean any part of you that is still even remotely human.

_He_ stands, only to be pushed down again.

I close my eyes and grit me teeth, trying to ignore _his_ frenzied screams and cries for help. _He_ doesn't even sound like my brother.

_He_ squeals some more, and I swear to God, I can almost hear 'Please help me Biney' somewhere in the mess.

I stand and briskly walk to my room, leaving _him_ behind. Because _he_ is not my brother. Never was, never will be. _He's_ just some weird kid, completely unrelated to me. It's just my mind pulling tricks, that's all. I've been separated from my brother for too long, that's the cause.

I miss him.

I decide then, that finding Dexter, the real one, will be my first priority after I get out of this place.

Oh brother, where art thou?


End file.
